


Hidden by the Forest

by Frywen



Series: Ancient Forests Sing for Me [1]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Aftermath of Violence, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Blood and Violence, Canon-Typical Violence, Finnish Mythology & Folklore, First Kiss, Hopeful Ending, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Child Death, Jaskier | Dandelion Whump, M/M, Miscommunication, Misunderstandings, Non-Binary Jaskier, Non-Human Jaskier | Dandelion, Rape/Non-con Elements, nothing happens don't worry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-10
Updated: 2020-08-21
Packaged: 2021-03-02 02:07:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 15,496
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23577391
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Frywen/pseuds/Frywen
Summary: “Geralt, please, I... can... let me explain, please...” Jaskier’s voice wavers and he takes another step back. Geralt strengthens his grip on the blood-soaked sword still in his hand and glares at Jaskier. At who he thought was Jaskier but is clearly something else.“What have you done with Jaskier?” His voice comes out as a savage snarl, his teeth clenched together, every muscle in his body tense like he’s a string pulled tight, ready to snap even at the smallest sign.“I am Jaskier. Geralt, please, you have to believe me...!” Jaskier’s voice hitches as Geralt takes a step closer stalking towards the bard in slow steady steps careful not to startle the bard before he’s close enough to strike.“Where’s the real Jaskier?”
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: Ancient Forests Sing for Me [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1895578
Comments: 198
Kudos: 1004





	1. In Which Geralt Finds Out the Bard He's Been Travelling With Isn't What He Thought

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first work in The Witcher fandom, I hope you enjoy!

  
Jaskier stares at Geralt his eyes shining just a bit brighter, a bit wilder, an unmistakable tinge of chaos radiating from him. 

“Geralt...” Jaskier starts but is silenced by a feral growl rising from Geralt’s throat. Jaskier puts his hands up in surrender and takes a step back and Geralt can smell the stench of fear radiating from the bard. 

“Geralt, please, I... can... let me explain, please...” Jaskier’s voice wavers and he takes another step back. Geralt strengthens his grip on the blood-soaked sword still in his hand and glares at Jaskier. At who he thought was Jaskier but is clearly something else. 

“What have you done with Jaskier?” His voice comes out as a savage snarl, his teeth clenched together, every muscle in his body tense like he’s a string pulled tight, ready to snap even at the smallest sign. 

“I am Jaskier. Geralt, please, you have to believe me...!” Jaskier’s voice hitches as Geralt takes a step closer stalking towards the bard in slow steady steps careful not to startle the bard before he’s close enough to strike. 

“Where’s the real Jaskier?” The hurt, the betrayal burns in his veins stronger, brighter than the potion he took, overwhelming his senses, making it impossible to focus on anything but the creature who tricked him, who must have done something to his bard to be able to masquerade as him so easily, without even the slightest vibration from his medallion lying on his chest. 

“I’m right here, just... just let me explain, please...!” 

”Shut up!” Geralt swings his sword. 

It seems like time slows down. Jaskier’s eyes widen in fear and he jumps back just in the nick of time from the path of the sword. Geralt curses at his impatience, he should have taken a step closer but now he surges at Jaskier. Jaskier — no, the creature stumbles backwards to flee and Geralt feels bad just for the tiniest moment for killing a fleeing man. But before he has the chance, Jaskier turns around and is gone. 

His sword connects with a tree with a thunk but he yanks it off as he scans the area around him. 

He senses no one. Like the bard — the creature — disappeared in thin air but he knows that to be impossible. No creature can do that and there was no portal. 

It feels like his blood is boiling, his heartbeat faster, the potion he took before the fight with the monsters now lying dead around him heightening his senses, making every sound in the forest sharper, louder. 

But none of the sounds belongs to the... to the creature. No steps in the forest floor, no humming or talking. No heartbeat. Like the bard was never there. 

***

It takes a few years before he sees the bard... the creature again. 

He travels far and wide, across the Continent and he tells himself he’s just going from one contract to another. 

Still, he ends up in Oxenfurt. And in Lettenhove. He learns things about Jaskier he’s never learnt in the years they travelled together. 

Julian Alfred Pankratz, Viscount de Lettenhove, a professor in Oxenfurt academy. 

He also hears some whispers about Redanian Secret Service but never learns the source of those. 

Considering the frequency they previously ran into each other, now it’s a series of near misses. Geralt reaches a town, a village just hours, days, weeks after the bard. Or later hears the bard came after he was gone. 

Every time he hears something about the bard the anger he felt the moment he realised the bard had lied to him seems to seep lower, deeper, coiling around his heart. The hurt, the betrayal follows him even into his sleep, into his dreams and he thinks sometimes he can hear the bard sing. First in his dreams. But then he thinks he hears it when he’s awake as well, a quiet tune just out of reach. 

He should have noticed. 

***

A group of wraiths, nothing he hasn’t handled before. Only he miscalculated. There are more wraiths than he thought, more wraiths the villagers told him about and they have him pushed back to the edge of the forest. He’s getting tired, slow. 

Suddenly, he’s being pulled back with a hard yank right into the forest. Without a thought, he slashes at whatever grabbed him before he even looks but the cry he hears stills him, freezes his heart with its familiarity. 

“Don’t kill me!” Jaskier- no the creature who looks like Jaskier cries holding his free hand up the other clutching his side. “... not yet... you won’t... you won’t find your way out of here if you do...please...”

“What the fuck do you want?!” His voice is a low growl, the potion he took making it even lower, wilder. Monstrous. 

“I... I just wanted you to be safe...” Jaskier... the creature tries to get up. Geralt’s silver sword is on its neck in an instant, pressing down. Something inside him screams so loud he has to force himself not to listen, not to listen to the voice which tells him to rip the impostor apart, take his betrayal and anger on the defenceless creature lying in the ground in front of him. 

“Okay, yeah... I’ll stay down so... could you please not run me through with the very scary sword, maybe?” Jaskier babbles, his eyes focused on the sword pressing down on his throat. 

Geralt listens to the forest around him. To the sounds he should hear, the wraiths, the animals, the wind in the trees. But he hears nothing, the eerie quiet surrounds them like a blanket even his sharp senses can’t penetrate. He keeps his sword at the hollow of Jaskier’s throat and scans his surroundings. 

Everything looks... off. He’s been in plenty of forests but never in any that looks and sounds like... this. Muted, filled with ancient magic, impenetrable, not even a small path in sight. 

“Where’s this?”

“We’re still in the same place,” Jaskier starts but yelps as Geralt presses his sword harder on his skin, “Ah! I mean technically speaking, of course, we haven’t travelled anywhere, we’re just... hidden by the forest... so to speak...” Jaskier falls quiet and looks behind Geralt his lips pursed. 

Geralt doesn’t hear anything, but he can’t help but look behind himself, at what looks like an impenetrable forest. 

“Take me back.” He orders the bard, pressing his sword down hard enough to draw blood. 

“No.” The bard shakes his head, a stubborn glint in his eyes, “I’m not letting you out there to get killed. We just have to wait until the sun rises.” 

“I could just kill you now and be done with it,” Geralt growls his anger flaring up again. 

“No!” For the first time Jaskier... the creature looks actually scared. But instead of looking like he’s scared for himself, he looks like he’s scared for him. It doesn’t make any sense and it makes even less sense when the creature continues, “no, you won’t find your way out of here without me. And I’m not saying this do diss your witcher senses or anything. You don’t know what this place is, what will happen if you’re left on your own in here. It might be days, weeks before you find your way out. If you do. Please, Geralt. I just want you to be safe.” 

“How do I know you’re telling me the truth?”

“I’m...” Jaskier makes a face like he’s trying to figure out what to say to get out of being killed by an angry husband before he completely relaxes and closes his eyes, “Just... just let me show you, okay? I promise I’ll let you out in the morning and after that, you’ll never have to see me again.” 

“Hmm.” Geralt watches the creature in front of him, how it looks like Jaskier, up to the mannerisms and tone of voice. If he didn’t see the unmistakable wildness radiating from the creature he would have thought it was his friend in front of him. 

When he removes his sword from the hollow of the throat of the creature he can see the unmistakable burn of silver on its skin, driving away any last thoughts it might have been his friend in front of him despite everything. 

Jaskier’s shining blue eyes open and stare at him in wonder before he gets up slowly. Geralt doesn’t let go of his sword, ready to strike in a moments notice if the creature decides to do anything. 

But all the creature does is to lift its hands making a triangle out of them. The movement sends a coppery scent in the air alerting Geralt to the fact it’s injured. 

The hand Jaskier used to clutch at his side is dyed red with blood. 

Panic surges through Geralt, drowning the anger underneath it and he realised with a painful clarity he can’t bear to watch the bard die even if it’s not really him, even if the creature is just using the bards face to throw him off he can’t kill it. Not while it wears that face. 

“Look through my hands, you should be able to see to the real world.” 

Geralt peers through Jaskier’s fingers at the wraiths still swarming the edge of the forest. 

“See?” Jaskier asks. Geralt hums as an answer and Jaskier drops his hands to his side and leans against a tree his eyes falling closed. 

”You're injured, ” Geralt says startling Jaskier to open his eyes. He looks at his hand, covered in blood and laughs in what sounds like self-mockery. 

”Yeah... Yeah, I suppose I am. I just need a bit of rest. Sunrise should be in a couple of hours or so, I'll just close my eyes until then... You can do whatever, just... don't stray too far...” Jaskier closes his eyes and slides to sit on the ground pressing at his side with his hand. 

Geralt looks at him in wonder, at how relaxed and unguarded he is in the presence of a monster who was ready to slay him just a moment before. He looks at how his lips start to turn pale and then a tinge of blue. 

“It’s almost dawn.” Jaskier opens his eyes and looks up at him a tremble in his voice, “do you just plan to stand there and stare at me for the rest of the time? You’ve been up to it for quite a time by now you know? I’m not going to run away if that’s what you’re worried about. Couldn’t even if I wanted to to be honest. Have to collect my strength a bit more for that and by then you’ll be far gone I would assume. Or is it my good looks you want to rest your eyes upon? If it’s that then, by all means, go ahead...”

“Shut up, Jaskier,” Geralt grunts and kneels by the bard. By the creature. “You’re injured, let me see.” 

Jaskier lifts his doublet and chemise with trembling hands. The wound on his side is deep and angry looking, veins turned black with poison on the edges. And against all the odds the bleeding has significantly slowed down, the wound starting to close. 

”It’s starting to heal but we still need to bandage it.” 

”Don't worry about it. I won't die before sunrise...” Jaskier falls quiet closing his eyes again. ”Probably... I hope...” 

Without a word, Geralt takes off his armour and shirt. He crouches next to the bard and rips up his shirt folding up the cleanest part against the wound and binds the rest around the bard in careful practised movements. 

Despite his anger, despite feeling betrayed and wound, he still can't let the creature carrying his friends face die. 

”Thank you, Geralt. Truly.” Jaskier’s eyes close and it doesn't take long for him to fall asleep. Geralt sits down next to the creature. If he has to be stuck here for a couple more hours he might as well get some rest. 

But rest is the last thing he gets as the creature moans in its sleep, clearly in pain. He keeps a close eye on the symptoms of poison clearly plaguing the bard, ready to wake him up if it starts to look like he will not survive without further treatment. 

He doesn't want to look too deeply into the anxiety he feels. Into the desperate need to reach for the bard every time he makes a pained noise, into the need to do anything in his power to make his pain to stop. 

So instead he stays still and silent, watching. 

”Oh, Geralt? Is it morning?” Jaskier stirs as the sun has already risen high in the sky. His eyes are still glassy with fever but the worst seems to be over. Geralt doesn't want to think why he didn't wake the creature up at the first rays of sunlight. It didn't matter. The creature was awake now. 

”Here, I'll... I'll let you out and you'll never have to see me again...” Jaskier climbs to stand on shaky feet, taking support from the tree behind him. He moves a branch to form an archway and gestures towards it. ”You can look before you go to make sure it's the right place. Just... walk through and you'll never see me again.”

Geralt sheaths his sword and takes a step closer to the bard. He only intends to look through the archway but the bard... the creature seems to take it wrong and reaches to give him a hug. 

Jaskier feels still a bit hot to touch as Geralt wraps his arms clumsily around the bard as if his hands don't know any other action they could make. 

”Thank you. For being my friend. For everything. Try not to die, okay?” Jaskier leans heavily against him, his face pressed against the hollow of his throat, every word tickling his skin. 

”Hmm...” Geralt doesn't know what to say so he says nothing. It doesn't stop Jaskier from babbling on as the real Jaskier would.

”You really were a great friend. Always looking after me. Deep down you do care even if you won't admit it and that's what's great about you. The caring I mean. You always get paid too little because you don't want to burden the people too much and you always did the silly things I asked of you. And I'll write more great ballads about you even if I'm not there to see them, I'm sure someone will tell me about your heroics...”

Jaskier rambles on and Geralt’s sure the bard- the creature doesn't even think about half of its words. 

”What happened to the real Julian Pankratz?” Geralt tries his luck as the creature seems to be halfway back to sleep. He needs to know where to find him. To be united with his friend again (which is a thought he will look further into another day). He tightens his hold on the creature just the smallest of amount, just to make sure it doesn't run away. 

”He's dead, ” the bard mumbles into the crook of his neck. 


	2. In Which Jaskier Is Straight Up Not Having a Good Time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Guilt is not the feeling Geralt thought he’d feel. Yet it's the exact feeling he has strangling his chest every time he lays his eyes on the sleeping creature.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tags have been updated, so be mindful of those. Nothing is too graphic I hope, but if someone feels like I should update the tags further I will.
> 
> Edit: I am absolutely floored by the response this fic got. Thank you so much for every comment and kudos and thank you for waiting for this next chapter. Every comment and kudos kept me writing even when anxiety over the current situation felt like it was drowning me and made writing almost impossible.

Guilt is not the feeling Geralt thought he’d feel. Yet it's the exact feeling he has strangling his chest every time he lays his eyes on the sleeping creature. 

He drops his gaze on his hands. In hands which are covered in Jaskier’s... in the creature's blood. 

If someone were to ask if he ever thought he’d find the bards blood in his own hands he would have laughed at the idea (well, probably not). Now, looking at his bloody knuckles he's not amused. In a list of monsters that were likely to end the bard's life, he had thought he’d be at the bottom. Not that he himself was the monster who slew the bard with his bare hands. 

Geralt closes his eyes if it's just not to see. Other senses, however, are not so easily closed off. The scent of pine and birch and expensive oils always surrounding the bard muted by the stench of blood and illness, the sounds of labored breaths and rapid heartbeat. 

He can still feel the bard's delicate throat under his hand, see his terrified eyes stare up at him, his bloodied lips opening up in a silent scream. 

Geralt's eyes snap open and he stares at the scratches on the back of his palm, almost completely healed already. How can they hurt more than the injuries he got last night from the fight with the wraiths? It doesn't make any sense. 

By the time it's sundown he still hasn't ridden himself of the guilt. He can smell, taste the stench of blood in the air. Jaskier... The creature is still bleeding. 

”...Gl...t...?” Jaskier whispers, his voice hoarse, barely audible. Geralt feels it might be better that way. He couldn't deal with the cries of pain. With the pleas for him to stop. Not again. Not with the voice of his... of the bard.

”Don't move, I'll dress your wounds.” 

”...G...lt...oo...eese...o...ooe...” Jaskier pleads, his voice absolutely broken and almost incomprehensible. 

”Just stay still. This won't hurt, ” he lies as he changes the bandages around Jaskier’s midriff. The wound still looks awful and Geralt doesn't need to be a healer to see his fever is getting higher again. Jaskier cries out in pain and somehow, it's one of the worst sounds Geralt has ever heard. 

***

By the time he gets back, the sun is already high in the sky. The healing potions he got from the local healer weigh heavy in his pocket. But not as heavy as the thought of the creature left alone bound and gagged. Injured. 

As he gets closer to his campsite he can almost taste the stench of fear in the air. On one hand, it's a smell he never wants to associate with Jaskier, but on the other hand, it means he's still there and not vanished into thin air like last time. 

He sees the creature before it sees him. Jaskier is desperately trying to pull and wriggle his hands free where they are bound around a tree, the salty smell of tears alerting Geralt to the fact he's crying. 

It wrenches his insides to know he is the reason Jaskier cries and he has to stop to take a breath to remind himself it's not really Jaskier, only a creature wearing his face. 

He steps into the clearing with enough noise to alert the creature of his return. Jaskier’s head snaps up where he had been leaning his forehead against the tree, the stench of fear spiking before it mellows out into something else. Jaskier looks at him and suddenly the tears dropping down his face one by one turn into an uncontrollable stream and he hides his face against the tree desperately fighting to get air between the sobs muffled against the gag in his mouth. 

Geralt stops, unsure what he's supposed to do. He stares at the creature long enough for Roach to get annoyed and she neighs pulling Geralt out of his thoughts. 

He kneels next to the creature and touches its shoulder. He doesn't know what he expected but it definitely wasn't for the creature to jerk away from him as the stench of fear spikes again. 

Jaskier stares at him with wide terrified eyes and pulls back as far as he can, pulling at the ropes in his wrists so hard Geralt can smell blood. 

Geralt reaches at the back of the creatures head to untie the knot holding the gag in place but the noise the creature makes is so pathetic he feels like he should say something to... he doesn't know. Make the creature feel less afraid or something. 

”I'll untie the gag, okay?” Those probably weren't the words he was supposed to say, but they'll have to do for now. He unties the knot trying his best not to pull on the hair tangled in it without much success. 

The creature pulls air in its lungs in big gulps and Geralt's gaze is drawn to the corners of the creature's mouth, red and bloodied after the too tight gag. 

”G-lt -ease...” the creature starts but Geralt can't handle his name from those lips, with that voice, with that kind of desperation and terror so he growls, deep from his chest, full of anger and venom he feels for the creature. 

”Do not call me by my name with that voice!” he snarls, his voice louder, meaner than he intended but a part of him doesn't care. Even if it looks like Jaskier, it is not. Jaskier is dead and the only lead he has to why and where is in front of him, wearing his dead friends face as if to torment him, remind him of his failures. 

How everyone he cherishes faces a horrible fate.

Geralt stands up and goes to Roach. He needs to calm down, to regain his senses. He has to stop thinking about the creature as Jaskier despite how much it might look and act like him. He has to stop before he does something he will regret. 

Roach munches happily on the apple he brought her as Geralt pats her absentmindedly, too focused on his own thoughts to pay proper attention. 

”Please... Please, let me go...” Jaskier’s voice is still hoarse and quiet, his words mumbled and hard to understand. 

Geralt doesn't reply. The creature doesn't deserve it. But he is no monster. He can't ignore the injuries the creature has. The injuries he caused with his own hands. 

He silently gathers bandages and sits next to Jaskier. The bard jerks away from him, the scent of fear rising again but this time he doesn't even try to look at Geralt. 

”Please don't... No more... Please...” Every part of Jaskier trembles as waves of fear radiate from him, the stench so strong it feels like it'll suffocate him. 

”Shut up or I'll gag you.” Geralt can't listen to that voice pleading, begging for mercy. Not again. 

Monster begging for mercy from the monster hunter. If he were a poet he’d find an epic story in that. But he's not. He's the merciless monster hunter who will do anything he can to find out what happened to his friend. 

Jaskier whines, his voice pathetic pain-filled whimper, when Geralt grasps his jaw and forces him to face him. His skin is cool to touch and all of his injuries look much better than they did the previous night. Too good for a human. A tiny part of him nags at the back of his skull telling him the bard wouldn't even be alive if he were a human. Still, Geralt fishes one of the healing potions from his pocket and uncorks it with his teeth. 

Jaskier purses his lips but Geralt presses on his cheeks until he opens his mouth with a pained yelp. Geralt tilts the bottle to the creature's lips, forcing the entire contents down its throat, never letting go until he can feel the creature swallow the last of it through coughs and cries of distress he ignores. 

Geralt lifts the creature's shirt and reaches to untie the bloodied bandages. Jaskier is still coughing, but he tries his best to twist away, to avoid his touch and Geralt can't really fault him for that. It doesn't make his task less annoying though. 

"Please don't... no... don't... please..." Jaskier rasps out pleas and no's but all Geralt does is glare at him, continuing his task in silence.

When the last of the bandages fall, all Geralt can do is stare. 

”What the fuck...?” He runs his fingers along Jaskier’s skin but a pained terrified whimper makes him pull his hand back. 

Geralt can smell the familiar ozone scent of magic radiating from the poet, and he lifts his gaze to meet Jaskier’s eyes. Eyes that seem to radiate unearthly blueness, their gaze so, so terrified. Terrified of him. Of what he'll do in the face of the clear evidence Jaskier, no, the creature is a monster.

”I'm sorry... Please forgive me... I'm sorry...” Jaskier whispers through tears. He twists and tugs his arms trying to free himself but the rope only tears into his skin, making his wrists bleed.

"You're not a dryad, are you?" Geralt asks as he runs his hand again on Jaskier's skin, or what feels and looks like tree bark, a clear contrast against his pale smooth skin. 

"I- I won't tell you anything..." Geralt is sure Jaskier meant his cry to sound more determined, more commanding, but it comes out as a hoarse whisper, broken by the tears still streaming freely down his face, "Please... please just let me go..."

Geralt lets the hem of Jaskiers shirt fall, covering his side. Or maybe cover is too much to ask. Geralt can still see the tree bark through the long slash in the fabric of the doublet and the chemise, both dyed red with blood. 

Jaskier's not a dryad, he can't be. All dryads are female and the creature is not. Or at least he thinks it's not a woman, he's not going to strip it down to find out. 

He stares at the creature, digging through everything he can think about forest bound monsters but nothing he comes up with matches what he sees before his eyes. 

He picks up the disinfectant and starts to clean all the scrapes and bruises covering the creature. The creature tries to turn its head away from him, but he forces it to face him, eliciting a pained whimper as his fingers press hard enough to leave new bruises on the chin of the poet. 

"...Why... why are you doing this...?" Jaskier slurs, another bout of tears streaming down his face. 

"What did you do with the real Jaskier?" Geralt finally asks. He can find out what kind of monster he's dealing with later. 

"...Please, don't... let me go, please..." 

Geralt takes a fist full of the creature's hair and slams its face on the tree. He twists its head back, desperately trying to ignore the cry of pain wrenched from the poet's abused throat, watching as blood trickles down the creature's face. The creature tries to apologize again but he only tightens his hold stopping the creatures pleas with another cry of pain. He grasps the creature's arm and holds tight, his fingers pressing just hard enough he can feel the delicate bone underneath. 

Jaskier turns white as a sheet and shakes his head despite the tight hold Geralt has on his hair, pleads dropping from his lips, "No more, please... not again... no more... I'm sorry, please forgive me...!" 

Geralt presses harder, telling himself the poet's pleas and cries won't affect him, won't wrench his insides and make him feel sick, won't make him remember how it felt when the bones snapped under his hands just two nights ago. 

"I will break your arm. If you still won't tell me what you did to him, I'll snap your wrist."

"...Please, don't... don't do this Geralt... I know this isn't who you are... Please just let me go, you'll never see me again I promise...Please..."

The scream echoes in the forest, digs under Geralt's skin and makes him nauseous, bile rising in his throat and he lets go of the bard as if touching him burns like acid. 

Geralt stands up, his sudden movement earning a terrified whine from Jaskier and steps away from the poet. He can feel something sticky in the hand he used to slam Jaskier's face in the tree and when he looks his hand is covered in blood. In Jaskier's blood. 

When he comes to he's at the nearby river. He kneels by the riverbed and tries to clean the blood from his hand but it's no use. It feels like the stench of Jaskier's blood is seeped under his fingernails, into his pores and he can't get it out no matter how many times he washes his hands. 

How can the creature get under his skin so badly by just imitating his friend? 

Shadows are getting longer by the time Geralt makes up his mind. He needs to know. He needs the creature to tell him what happened to the real Jaskier. Even if he can do nothing now that the bard is dead he still needs to know. And he won't let the creature go before he knows everything. 

He makes his way back to the camp in slow determined strides ignoring the scent of fear radiating from Jaskier. He crouches next to the creature and casts Axii. But as soon as the sign is formed, feels like a door is slammed to his face, hard enough he rears back from the creature. 

They stare at each other in silence stretching to an awkward and uncomfortable length. Jaskier stares at Geralt the terror being slowly replaced by determination. 

”I will tell you nothing!” Jaskier spats at him. His voice trembles with fear and rage Geralt has never heard before, but it's not what draws his attention. It's the forest around them, the creaking of the trees, the tremble of the ground. The overall background hum of chaos seeming to concentrate until the air around them crackles with the power. And Jaskier. Jaskier looks wild, his face covered in blood, his too sharp teeth bared in a snarl, like an animal driven into a corner without a place to run or hide. 

"I'd rather die!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You can find me on Tumblr @frywen-babbles (main) and @frywen-little-lark (witcher sideblog)


	3. In Which Bears? Bears!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geralt has feels and he Does Not Care for Them. Also bears.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all the comments and kudos in ch2! I have read and reread every single one of them and once again I'm amazed by this fandom. Thank you, truly. 
> 
> Come say hi on tumblr @frywen-little-lark!

Jaskier is not talking. 

Geralt never thought silence would bother him. But now the forest feels... eerie. Like every living creature is watching, following. The silence feels like a blanket, suffocating all his senses and he hates it. 

By sundown, the only thing holding Jaskier up on Roach is the rope Geralt used to tie him up and he all but collapses to his arms when it's time to stop for the night. 

The same repeats the next day and the day after that. Geralt feels like he wants to crawl out of his skin. To scratch a nonexisting itch, to scream his frustration to the forest. 

By the fourth day Jaskier... the creature is healthy enough to walk. For a couple of hours. When the creature stumbles for the fifth time it falls to its knees as the chain tied from the creature's wrist to Roach's saddle pulls tight. The silver chain rattles as the creature stumbles to its feet. 

"Get on Roach."

"I can walk."

"Get on Roach or I'll throw you myself," Geralt growls, frustration getting the better of him. Every conversation they've had have been the same. He asks and Jaskier insists he's fine. It drives him insane and he doesn't even understand why. Why does it matter to him if the creature has enough food or can walk or talk. 

They're nearing a village and Geralt steers Roach deeper into the forest. He drags the creature from the saddle and ties it on a tree as he goes through his saddlebags for medical supplies. He checks the injuries like every night before and the creature endures it, not meeting his eyes as he runs his hands over the tree bark covering its skin. At places it's starting to flake off, revealing normal skin underneath. Only where the worst of the injuries are the tree bark is still thick, covering more and more area each day, his arm rendered practically immobile, the bark covering him from shoulder to the tips of his fingers. 

Geralt applies healing salve over the injuries not sure if the creature is not in as much pain as before or if it has just managed to get used to it, but he doesn't hear a single whimper, not even when he tries to move its arm. But he sees the clenched jaw, hears the spike in the heartbeat, the sharp inhale of breath and he hates himself. 

He stuffs the feeling down, anger pouring out in its stead and the knots he ties are probably too tight, eliciting a whimper from the creature. 

"Eat." 

No answer. 

As soon as the creature is adequately fed he goes over the ropes and chain holding the creature down and ties a gag in place. And he leaves. 

He wishes he could ignore how the muffled screams and the sour scent of panic makes him feel. He wants to return to Jaskier and reassure him, make sure he's okay. 

Instead, he walks faster. 

One contract and two days later Geralt returns where he left Jaskier... where he left the creature. 

It's silent. 

Almost too silent. 

He creeps closer only to find Jaskier just where he left him, slumped over, the only thing holding him up the ropes he used to bind him. 

Cold, cold dread sweeps over him, but only a step closer he can hear a faint heartbeat and before he knows what he's doing he's rushing to the bard. He falls to his knees and cradles the poet's cheeks, checking him for injuries. Relief floods him, cuts tension in his muscles like a knife.

It lasts only for a second. 

The next moment he has hands full of terrified creature, the air turning sour with the scent of fear and he has to take a hold of the poet to stop him hurting either of them.

"Jaskier! Jaskier, it's me," Geralt tries to calm down the panicked poet. It doesn't work how he imagined. Jaskier freezes, everything about him is still, Geralt is not even sure if he's breathing. He tears the gag away from Jaskier's mouth and a stream of words immediately fall out, only he has a hard time understanding what the poet is saying, his voice quiet and hoarse and so, so terrified.

"- I'm sorry, I won't do it again, I'm so sorry, please forgive me, I won't do it again, please Master Witcher, please -"

"That's enough!"

Jaskier snaps his mouth shut so fast Geralt can hear his teeth clang together. He lets his hands fall and steps away. 

"Fuck." He has nothing else to say as he turns away from Jaskier. From the creature. Which is not Jaskier, no matter how much it looks like him. 

***

The creature talks. 

It started to talk the day before and at first, Geralt is glad he doesn't have to be alone with his thoughts anymore. But after half a day of nonsensical comments about the weather, about the scenery, it comes apparent it's not the same. 

Jaskier is not talking _TO_ him. 

It doesn't make any sense that Geralt craves for the creature's attention, that he desperately wants to be included in the endless rambles Jaskier used to have with him. 

Not that Jaskier is answering his questions. No, if he asks anything the creature clams up like, well, a clam (he never claimed to be the poet of the two). It's the usual endless babble about anything that crosses the poet's mind from the blueness of the sky to a pretty barmaid he saw a few villages back. 

Next comes the song. At first, some hoarse slightly off-key verses here and there, like the poet is testing his voice. Geralt prefers not to think about it too much. He doesn't want to think how many times the bard has screamed his throat sore and he especially doesn't want to think about what he did with his own bare hands. 

The thought haunts him, makes his skin crawl and he wants to wash his hands of the blood he still feels, smells in them. He thinks he can still see the scrapes Jaskier made to his hands, trying to break free from his hold but they should have been gone ages ago.

It haunts him, especially like this, at night when the sun has gone down and all there seems to be in the world is the small camp in a clearing. He stares at his hands. At the hands, he can so clearly see hurting Jaskier as soon as he closes his eyes. 

The song Jaskier is half singing, half humming is sad, the words he can make out tell about longing and heartbreak. He's not even sure if Jaskier is still fully awake, his head leaning against the tree his tied to, eyes closed. 

Jaskier shifts, suddenly fully awake and a whiff of new emotions fills the air, almost drowning the ever-present fear and sadness. It's... comforting, familiar. It's the same scent Jaskier has when they meet again, no matter how long or short their time apart and Geralt hadn't even realised how much he missed it. How much he missed... Jaskier. The real thing, not this cheap imitation. 

Jaskier - the creature squirms and Geralt squints his eyes. There's nothing in the forest except for them and wild animals, no people nor monsters anywhere in miles. 

The creature looks at him and immediately stills. "I'm sorry, Master Witcher." He shields his arm still on a sling with his hand and Geralt is sure he doesn't even realise he's doing it. 

"Spit it out," he sighs, not even attempting to move closer to the bard. He does not expect an answer anyway. 

"It's just... bears," the poet says, still cradling his injured arm. Geralt listens for a while and sure enough, there are bears. Nothing exceptional about it this deep in the forest. 

"Hmm... and what about it?" 

Jaskier snaps his mouth shut and turns his head away, a stubborn pout on his lips. 

No answer then. 

***

"Get in." 

Jaskier looks at him, his face betraying no emotion but Geralt can smell the anxiety and fear spike. Jaskier lowers his eyes to his boots. Then he looks into the forest. Again. 

Geralt sighs. He's so done with this and its only been a couple of days. Fucking bears. 

"Get. In," he growls to the creature who brings his eyes back to him. The creature looks at its boots again and quickly takes them off. And steps straight into the stream with its clothes on. 

"What are you doing?" Geralt asks. Jaskier looks at the waist-deep water and back at him. 

"I got in?" Jaskier's voice is quiet, uncertain. Geralt hates it. 

"To bathe. You stink." It isn't entirely true. While the poet is indeed dirty beyond anything Geralt has ever seen, he doesn't stink. It just... can't be comfortable being that dirty. Having torn clothes with blood all over them. Maybe that was what Geralt hated the most, smelling the old blood in the bard's clothes. And maybe, maybe after a good bath, the ever-present stink of fear would diminish. 

"Oh... right... yeah... that... that makes sense, I suppose..." Jaskier tugs at his dublet, and pulls it off and Geralt feels like he's... leering like some kind of creep. He turns around and focuses on the forest. 

There are more bears. He wouldn't keep tabs on them otherwise, but the creature seems to follow them. He doesn't even start to guess why. It's none of his business. 

The chain slips from his hand and his ears pick up almost silent steps and before he has time to even think he has arms full of slippery, squiggly bard he tries his hardest to pin to the ground. 

The creature slips from his grasp and makes a mad sprint to the forest, only his instinct telling him to hunt, to bring down the pray make him fast enough to jump after it, barely grasping the creature's ankle and they both tumble to the ground. He tries to pull the creature closer but gets a kick in the face. 

The sound coming from his throat can only be described as a growl as he bounces and pins the creature to the ground, adrenaline making his heart pound in his ears, betrayal burning in his veins. Is this what he'll get for giving the creature a moment of privacy? Some decency? 

Jaskier roars at him, his teeth bared in a snarl, low growl bubbling from his throat and he's never looked less human. Granted, he looks almost human but in that slightly off way that screams of a monster, his fangs so long it's a wonder they fit his mouth, light reflecting a deep blue light from his eyes and his long blunt nails digging deep into Geralt's skin. 

Geralt wrestles his arm on the creature's throat and suddenly the creature goes completely still. Geralt presses down harder and the creature goes slack in his hold, revealing its throat in surrender. 

"Just kill me then." There is a smell of tears in the air and the creature almost trembles in his hold. 

"Fuck." Geralt let's go and sits back, the creature still pinned between his legs. "Fuck." He sits next to the creature and wraps the silver chain around his hand just in case. 

Jaskier curls up and buries his face in his knees, hugging his legs. 

"...I thought you'd like a bath. And clean clothes." 

"...I thought you wanted to drown me..."

The creature doesn't look at Geralt but still the way it so freely admits thinking he wanted to kill it makes him feel strangely vulnerable. He could never kill it. Even now every time he closes his eyes he can see Jaskier screaming under his hands, flinching away from him terrified and it makes him feel nauseous. 

Only monsters hunt monsters. He knows that. But to be so bluntly reminded of it doesn't sit well with him. If Jaskier were here he'd know how to distract him. But all he has is the creature who thinks he wants it dead. 

"What's your name?" He needs something else to think about. And it never occurred to him until now the creature must have a name. 

"...Leinikki." The creature sounds hesitant like this is something he shouldn't tell him. Geralt twists the name a couple of times in his tongue, the unfamiliarity of it making him hesitant to say it aloud. It's not Elder. He does not recognize the language. 

"Does it mean anything?"

"...Buttercup."

"...Hmm." Jaskier also means buttercup. Small pretty weed. Quite poisonous. Geralt looks at the creature. At how small and unintimidating it has made itself. How desperate it must have been to try to run away when he was just there, barely a few feet away. Now it smells like sadness more than anything. 

Geralt feels almost sorry for it. Almost. He still needs to find out what happened to Jaskier. He won't give up until he finds out, no matter what it takes. 

"Care for the bath now?" Geralt asks when the sky has turned red with sunset. 

"You call that cold stream a bath, you brute? You don't even carry soap or bath oil with you." Jaskier's voice almost carries its normal playful lilt. Almost. Mostly it's unbelievably fragile, sad. 

"I have soap. And oil," Geralt grunts. What he doesn't tell is the soaps and oils are Jaskier's, carried in his bags for all these years. 

He hears wet clothes fall to the ground and when he turns to look, soap and oil in hand, he sees Jaskier without a shirt, fingering the fastenings of his trousers absentmindedly. 

He looks breathtakingly beautiful in the light of the setting sun and Geralt is sure if their roles were reversed Jaskier would come up with something poetic to say. All he can do is admire the beauty in silence, enamoured by the way sunlight dances on the poet's skin, on his hair, illuminating every curl in his head, revealing every curve of his body. 

As if sensing his eyes on him, the creature turns to look at him.

"I don't have any spare clothes." It isn't a question. Jaskier has nothing on him except the wet, torn clothes on his back and they are beyond saving. 

"I have spares." 

Geralt doesn't tie the creature to a tree when they make a camp. Instead, he ties the silver chain to Roach and lets the creature sit by the fire.

It shouldn't bother him so much, seeing Jaskier in his clothes. A small, animalistic part of his brain keeps screaming mine, mine, mine! Like he's some sort of animal laying a claim on a mate. 

The poet doesn't seem to notice his turmoil and he's grateful for it. But how he wishes the poet would look different. Lively. Now, he just sits still, hugging his knees staring at the fire. His clothes don't look as baggy as Geralt had feared. The creature hides quite well how tall, how toned it is under all the colourful dublets and fine silks and poetry. 

He doesn't get a word of protest when he tosses the creature's old clothes to the flames. It only buries its head on its knees. 

Geralt has only one bedroll, something he didn't consider a problem before. But now, seeing the dark circles under Jaskier's eyes... no, not seeing. He has seen them. He just chose to ignore them for his own comfort. 

Geralt catches a change in Jaskier's heartbeat as he's untying his bedroll from Roach's saddle and when he glances over he's rubbing his eyes. The creature must be truly tired, falling asleep sitting up. 

"You're sleeping on the bedroll." Geralt sets the bedroll safe distance away from the fire. The silence turns awkward and he finally looks at the poet who looks at him with genuine surprise.

"But I thought... why would you..." Jaskier starts and stops, starts over again a few times before he finally settles, "Thank you, Master Witcher."

Jaskier curls up on the bedroll and pulls the blanket over himself. Geralt can tell he's not asleep, his breath not steady enough. Still, he settles to lie down next to him, facing the forest, Jaskier between himself and the fire. Just like old times.

Except it's not. 

Jaskier is too quiet for being awake. 

Geralt doesn't even try to fall asleep. He opts for meditation instead, but finds it impossible when something touching his back startles him out of it. 

Jaskier's fingers curl around the fabric of his shirt. When he does nothing, Jaskier takes a tighter hold of his shirt and Geralt can feel the poet's hands tremble as he presses his forehead between his shoulder blades. 

A quiet whimper and the smell of tears alert Geralt that something is wrong. 

The creature is in pain. 

How he never realised it before is beyond him. How the creature started to talk when it didn't want to talk to him. How it sang even when it was exhausted. It was all to distract. 

Jaskier shifts a bit and the silver chain rattles in the silent night. 

He truly is a monster. 

Come morning and Geralt hasn't had a wink of rest. Not even after Jaskier fell into a restless sleep, clearly plagued by nightmares and he can't blame him. He is probably the source of his nightmares. Still, Jaskier had never let go of his shirt, seeking comfort from the monster who is the reason he's in pain. He doesn't understand it. 

He blames it on his conflicted emotions, later when he has time to think. But at that moment he barely has time to dodge and slap Roach's flank to get her to flee before he's face to face with a bear, standing on two feet ready to attack. 

"Geralt!" 

He hears Jaskier scream but has no time to pay attention to him, all of his focus on the roaring beast in front of him. His sword is on the other side of the clearing, next to Jaskier, except Jaskier is there no more. Instead, he's stumbling in Geralt's direction. 

"No!" Geralt panics. He rushes the last few steps and picks the poet up and tosses him as far as he can just in time because the next thing he feels is claws digging into his shoulder with enough force to throw him in the opposite direction. 

He barely has the time to get up before the bear is on him again. Only he has no time to attack. 

Jaskier is in front of him, hands crossed in front of his face, facing the bear with nothing to protect himself. 

The bard will die. He has to watch the bard die. And he can do nothing. 

He can't live in a world with no Jaskier in it. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> YEET


	4. In Which Things Go Downhill Rather Fast

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things get rather desperate and Geralt comes to some realisations.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Writing this chapter was harder than giving birth to a real-life human baby. I wrote, I suffered, bon apple teeth. Please note the updated tags.

It all happens in a matter of seconds. The realisation he can't bare to watch the poet die. The knowledge he can't do anything to stop it. 

It all looks like it happens slowly. The bear opening its maw, teeth sharp against Jaskier's soft skin as it rushes for its prey. The enraged roar as it stops mare centimetres from Jaskier, Jaskier's hands and face practically in its jaws and Geralt feels like he can't breathe, all of his focus on the poet in front of him. 

"Jaskier!" His voice rasps in his throat, desperate, terrified. Dear Merlitele he's going to have to see Jaskier's arms ripped off before the bear heads for his throat...

"Ei ei ei, elä! Lopeta!" Jaskier shouts something Geralt does not understand just as another bear rushes the clearing, its teeth bared, heading straight for Geralt and he can hear more coming, their fast heartbeats, soft hurried steps on the ground, the low growl from their throats and he's so terrified, not for himself but for his bard, for the unarmed man in front of him, his only defence his words that do nothing against wild beasts determined to get their dinner out of them. 

"Lopeta! Pyyvvän! Elä!" Jaskier sounds pleading and somehow against all the odds the bear roars one last time before it huffs and sits back. "Kiitos." Jaskier sighs in relief and lowers his arms, bringing them to the bear's face.

Geralt tries to get up, to rush at Jaskier to check he's uninjured but all he does is move his arm when the other bear rushes his side, teeth bared, a low growl rising from its throat. Geralt settles back down, as non-threatening as he can get, being a witcher and all. 

"Oon kunnossa, ihan kunnossa oun." Jaskier talks gently to the bear, stroking its muzzle and presses their foreheads together. 

The bear whines and mouths the chain around Jaskier's wrist. 

"Tiijjän. Elä välitä siitä." Jaskier mutters and buries his face on the bear's fur, the chain rattling quietly as he wraps his arms around the bear's neck. 

The bear whines, a low voice vibrating its whole body. 

"Oon pahoellani. Tarkotus ei ollu huolestuttoo sinnuu tae äetiä."

The bear huffs and sniffs Jaskier's hair, nosing at the side of his throat in what Geralt can only assume is affection. 

"Hän on hölömöin ja jiäräpäesin immeinen jonka oun ikinä tavanna enkä vaehtais poes hetkeekään jonka oun voena olla hänen kanssaan. En halluu satuttoo häntä. Hän on minule hyvin tärkiä. Tärkiäin. Tykkeen hänestä paljon. Pelottavan paljon. Tiijjän olevani hölömö mutta anna minule aekoo, anna minun olla hänen kanssaan, anna minun korjata tämä. Pyyvvän..." 

The bear growls low and mouths the chain again, pushing Jaskier with its head and Jaskier lets out a strangled laugh, "Ae oon minä hölömö? Luotan hänneen koko syvämmestäni. Hän on hyvä ukko, häntä pittää vua välillä muistuttoo siitä."

Jaskier buries his face in the bears fur and murmurs something so low Geralt can barely hear it, "Hyvästi, oot minule rakas." and he kisses the bear one last time, before the bear gives Geralt one last glance and disappears back into the forest, the rest of them following after, the hurry they rushed to the clearing forgotten. 

It takes too long and at the same time too short time for the bears to disappear. Jaskier follows them with his eyes until Geralt can't hear anything anymore before he turns to Geralt. 

Or tries to, as soon as he shifts his weight to turn around his leg gives out underneath him and he goes tumbling to the ground. Geralt lunges forward, only barely managing to soften the poets fall. 

Having the man in his arms feels comforting, he knows nothing will come to harm him, not with his arms around him, protecting him from any possible harm. 

Jaskier makes an effort to move but Geralt just holds on tighter, revelling in the knowledge he's unharmed, in the familiar scent of birch and pine. It's not until Jaskier stills, rigid in his arms, the air around them spiking with the stench of fear, Geralt let's go, scrambling back. 

Jaskier stares at him, his eyes wide with fear, heartbeat rapid in his chest, half of his face covered in scrapes and dirt, the redness sure to bloom into bruises come morning. His clothes are covered in dirt and fallen leaves and Geralt can smell the blood from the numerous scrapes littering the poet's body. 

Jaskier opens his mouth as if to say something but Geralt's mouth works faster, the words pouring out before he has the time to put any thought into them. 

"I hurt you." The implication, _I'm sorry, I'm so sorry_ , left unsaid, the words getting stuck in his throat, his tongue glued at the roof of his mouth. 

Jaskier looks at him, his mouth hanging open in disbelief. He closes his mouth but pearls of laughter escape through his lips, the sound disbelieving, bordering on hysterical. Geralt has no idea what to do. Especially, when the poet goes into full hysterics. 

"You don't say." His laughter turns into sobs and he buries his face in his hands. "Fuck..."

Geralt gathers the end of the silver chain in his hands where it lies on the ground, forgotten. He stares at it, listening to the muffled sobs as a realisation hits him. 

The creature could have run away. 

It could have run away while he was distracted but instead, it jumped in front of him, without a care of its own well-being. It risked its life to save his. 

Geralt whistles for Roach and sets to pack their camp. He keeps a concerned eye on the creature, but it doesn't try to move. 

Geralt stops, a few paces away, far enough he can't touch the creature. 

"We need to go," he says. The creature looks up at him, tears clinging to its eyelashes. It stares at him without saying a word. 

"...Are you in pain?" 

The creature blinks at his question. As if it did not understand what he was saying. 

"Does it hurt?" he asks, irritation clear in his voice and he winces as the creature shies away from him, shielding the arm which was injured before. 

"I'm fine, Master Witcher," the creature turns its eyes to the ground, "No need to worry about me." 

"Ah, fuck..." Geralt slumps to the ground and scratches his neck. He didn't mean to frighten the creature, not now, not... "You... you shouldn't have jumped in front of me," he manages to get out. 

"It was my father, he wouldn't hurt me," Jaskier says but as soon as the words are out of his mouth he looks horrified he even uttered them, pursing his lips together as if that would prevent any more words pouring from his lips. 

"Even the more reason. Werebears are unpredictable."

"...Just how long have you walked the path?" the creature scoffs, like Geralt's being the biggest idiot alive. "That was just a normal bear. Wouldn't your medallion have done that-" the creature wiggles its fingers to emphasise its words "- vibrating thingy if it were the case." 

"Well, how am I supposed to know what the fuck you are if you don't tell me?" His voice rises again despite his best efforts, the frustration getting the better of him, making his voice raw. Hard. 

"...You haven't told me where you're taking me either," the creature says, his voice soft, barely audible, his gaze fixed firmly on his hands as his fingers trace the silver chain on his wrist like it were fine, delicate jewellery. 

"To a friend. Triss Merigold. She will find out what you're hiding." 

"Please, don't." The creature's voice breaks and it takes a deep breath. "Please, don't. I just want to go home..." 

"Then just tell me what I want to know!"

"And then you'll do what? Scavenge me for body parts? Sell me to that mage of yours? Tie me up with silver to keep as a pet?" The creature turns to look at Geralt, its voice sharp, jaw clenched in defiance despite the clear scent of fear souring the air around them. Despite the tears rolling down his cheeks one by one. 

"I wouldn't do that."

Jaskier lifts his hand, the silver chain rattling as he moves. Nausea fills Geralt's senses at the sight. He has to turn away, to look at anything but the creature who looks so much like Jaskier, holding his hand limply up as the silver chain digs deep into his skin, black veins visible where the skin is torn, the silver poisoning him every moment it touches the broken skin. 

"You're so full of shite, Master Witcher. I have travelled with you long enough to see what you use for those potions of yours."

Both ideas, that the creature has travelled with him for a long time without him noticing, that it has seen him look for ingredients, slaying monsters just to get what he wants, rub him the wrong way but he doesn't know why. 

"Triss is kind. She wouldn't use you." _I wouldn't use you_.

"All people believe themselves to be kind until the right circumstances arise, Master Witcher. You have witnessed it plenty of times." 

Geralt loses his patience, anger and hurt thrumming in his veins, screaming at him to throttle the creature to get his answers, "Then what the fuck do you want me to do?! Guess?!" 

"I want you to let me go." Jaskier looks at him, his voice level. No pleading, no begging. Just a simple statement. 

"That's not going to happen!" he snarls and gets up turning his back to the creature. He has to take a few steps away. To distract himself. 

Roach nudges him, inpatient, with all of his things already loaded on her back. She tries to see if he has hidden any snacks on his pockets, pushing him with her head to get his attention. Geralt buries his hands on her mane and gives her calming pets although he's not sure which one of them he's trying to calm down, Roach or himself. 

"...If you take me to Lettenhove I can show you where I buried him..." Jaskier's voice is quiet, hesitant. Geralt recognises a peace offering when he hears one and turns to look at the creature. It doesn't look at him. It looks towards what Geralt can only assume where Lettenhove is. 

The idea of Jaskier lying in an unmarked grave in some ditch makes him uneasy. The bard should have people to remember him, a place to pay their tribute, a place as obnoxious and colourful as the poet lying in the ground beneath it. 

"...Why did you do it?" _Why did you kill him?_

"Everyone deserves a decent burial and I was the only one there," the creature says, still not turning to look at Geralt. 

"You should have taken him to his parents, let them mourn him properly." 

"No parent deserves to see their children die, Master Witcher. If I did them anything it was a service." 

Leaving somebody to lie in an unmarked grave is no way a service to anyone. He doesn't say a word, can't say a word. He just mounts Roach and leaves the creature to stumble after him. 

Geralt has no time to play its games. 

Silence has never felt so loud. Jaskier doesn't talk, doesn't sing. He just follows behind Roach, barely managing to keep up with the pace Geralt knows to be too fast for a human. At night he curls up against Geralt's back, grasping his shirt like his life depends on it and Geralt can't figure out why. 

Why does the creature seek comfort in him. 

A shiver at his back makes him tense up and he listens carefully to the ragged breaths, to the rapid heartbeat. 

Another nightmare. 

He feels like he should turn around, to offer comfort, or... something. Not let Jaskier suffer alone. 

But it is not Jaskier. 

It's not Jaskier even when he turns to look, to see the familiar curve of his lips, the familiar curls on his head. Geralt runs his fingers to smooth out the wrinkles on his forehead. He means to stop there. But it's... Jaskier, looking so alive right next to him and he can't help but touch his cheek where bruises bloom like flowers, run his fingers along with his scruffy beard, pet his messy curls. How he has wanted to do this for years. And now it's all gone and he can never have Jaskier back. But the creature looks so much like the poet, sounds so much like him, feels, smells so much like him all Geralt wants to do is hold him close. 

But it is not Jaskier. 

And he needs to keep watch, even at night. He can't do that if he's holding someone, it might make him slower, not alert him fast enough if something is wrong.

Or so he keeps telling himself. 

By the fifth day when they stop to camp Jaskier looks ragged, leaning against a tree, digging his fingers into it as if it could give him strength. 

Geralt sets up the camp in silence, glancing now and then at Jaskier who hasn't left the tree, leaning his forehead against it, mouthing silent words like a prayer. 

"Master Witcher," Jaskier whispers so quietly Geralt can barely hear. When he turns Jaskier is looking at him, an unreadable expression on his face. 

Jaskier walks closer until he's close enough to touch and falls to his knees. 

"Please, Master Witcher. Please." Jaskier inches closer, bright blue eyes staring at Geralt, "I'll do _anything_ for you. Anything you want that's in my power to give is yours." 

Geralt has no words. He just stands there and stares at the creature on his knees in front of him. 

Jaskier reaches to touch at the hem of his shirt, nervousness and fear radiating from him in waves and he licks his lips and there are dozens of scenarios Geralt has imagined, has dreamt of the bard on his knees in front of him, but none of them this. None of them had the bard stink of fear and anxiety, bruises he caused colouring his face in bright purples, greens and yellows. None of them had the poet chew his lip until it bleeds and none of them had the bard so close in tears, eyes desperate, pleading. 

"I promise I'll make you feel good, you can imagine me your favourite whore if you will. You can use me as you desire. Just... just please, I'm begging, Master Witcher, please let me go..."

 _Never this_. 

He steps away, one step, two. And he turns around, collects his swords and flees. 

Jaskier's screams and pleas ring in his ears even after he reaches the closest village. Jaskier's face staring up at him, bruises colouring his cheek haunt him every time he closes his eyes and he prays there's an easy contract in the village where he can just slay some monsters and not think so fucking much of the poet. Of the creature.

Luck seems to be on his side. He rips up the note offering a decent amount of coin for an unidentified monster up in the woods. 

Up close, he realises he made a mistake. 

A huge mistake. 

Instead of a small monster, as he thought, it's a pair of nesting griffins, settled deep enough in the woods they mostly leave the village alone. And they screech, deafening him, launching at him as soon as they spot the predator near their nest they will defend with their life. 

Geralt drags his feet, a trail of bloody handprints on trees marking his path. Dark spots dance in his vision, his thoughts foggy, clouded. Only one thought in his mind. 

_Jaskier_. 

He has to make it back to Jaskier. 

He can't leave Jaskier trapped. 

Alone. 

He needs to save Jaskier. 

Buzzing in his ears, hands touching him. But he has only one goal in mind, the silver chain, tied to a tree. The chain falls loose, slippery with blood trailing down his fingers and all turns black. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I made what Jaskier said impossible to translate with google translate and I would like to thank [@vampirelady666](https://vampirelady666.tumblr.com) for translating what he's saying for me. I speak "only" three different dialects, but none of them were Right™ and she very graciously helped me. 
> 
> Also, a big <3 to those who at this point can guess what country's folklore I used.


	5. In Which They Finally Talk and Maybe Some Other Things

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geralt gets a hold of the brain cell for a moment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is it! The big reveal! 
> 
> This got finished thanks to me being a total idiot and cutting myself in a finger at work badly enough I needed stitches. I've been so bored. I thought this would be like less than 2000 words. Instead, you got 5000 words of yearning. I hope you guys had as much fun reading as I had writing this. 
> 
> I'm eternally grateful for [Stonecoldsilly](https://archiveofourown.org/users/stonecoldsilly/pseuds/stonecoldsilly) for looking this over when I was close to falling into despair. 
> 
> The translation to the song Jaskier is singing at the beginning can be found at the end notes.

_"...Haavoitun, kun mua pitelet noin, kipu vain voimistuu_   
_Oisin sun nyt kun haluat pois ja ovi vain sulkeutuu_   
_Kun mua sattuu, kun sydämessä veitset kääntyy_   
_Mä vapisen niin kuin jokainen ihminen, kuolevainen_   
_Jos tää loppuu, jos tänä yönä rakkaus päättyy_   
_Mä hajoan niin kuin jokainen ihminen, kuolevainen..."_

The voice is sad, singing a melancholy tune so quietly Geralt can barely make out the words. 

"...Jaskier...?" 

The silence falls so suddenly Geralt thinks he imagined the whole thing. He forces his eyes open to look at the bright afternoon sky. It was dark when he made it back to the camp.

"...You're awake." The voice is soft. Familiar. "I thought you wouldn't..." A delicate hand reaches to touch his face but stops before the fingers reach his cheek. Geralt follows the hand to find his poet sitting next to him, eyes fixed on his chest. Jaskier clenches his hand into a fist and pulls it on his lap, not touching him. 

"...Jaskier..." Geralt's voice rasps in his throat, "...you're here..."

"...I'm here..." Jaskier admits, looking at his hand like it had betrayed him. 

"You're here..." Geralt repeats himself, not fully understanding *why* Jaskier is still here. He was let go hours ago, he should be far by now, far enough Geralt wouldn't be able to track him down, not fast at least. 

"...Where else would I be you absolute horse's arse? Fuck..." The litany of quiet curses leaving the bards mouth is absolutely filthy and exactly what Geralt expects from his friend. 

"...Why...? I... I let you go..."

"Oh, I'm sorry, I was just supposed to leave you here to die? All by yourself? I'll write a ballad about that, 'if you find a dying witcher just leave the fucker to die'." Jaskier doesn't look at him. He looks into the forest, exhaustion and sadness marring his face, none of the bite of the words reaching his voice. He looks more tired Geralt ever remembers seeing him. 

"...I set you free, but you didn't flee." He knows there isn't a question. But still, he wants... needs answers. 

"... And where would I have gone? Who frees a monster pretending to be a human from silver? Even you wouldn't dare to travel with me lest my powers were... dampened. Crippled." 

Oh... right. The chain is still firmly around Jaskier's wrist, digging into his skin, fresh scrapes and toothmarks evidence enough how desperately he'd been trying to free himself. 

"...not like I could have run to any of my friends... Too easy to find... to track. I'm sure Essi won't ever forgive me when I never go to see her again..." Jaskier's voice is barely a whisper and Geralt has to strain his ears to hear him. 

"Let me... let me help." Geralt struggles to rise, turning towards the bard and supports his weight on his elbow. It is only then he notices he's lying on a bedroll, cleaned up, wounds stitched and bandaged, his potion bag next to him within an arms reach. He offers his hand to Jaskier, trying to ignore how badly his hand trembles with the effort. Jaskier's eyes shoot up to meet his, surprise evident, but Geralt pushes on, reaching for his wrist awkwardly from his position on the ground. "I didn't... I needed to let you free. I need to let you free." A part of him fears as soon as the chain loosens in Jaskier's wrist, it'll be the last time he sees the poet. The last time he sees his friend. Still, he needs to make this right. 

Jaskier offers him his wrist and he takes it in his hands gently, afraid he'll hurt the bard more than he already has. 

"... You know the first time I met humans in here I was almost killed. I didn't realise the rules were so different here than at home, that in here you have to hide and adapt. That in here you couldn't just go to people and ask for stories in exchange for success in a hunt..." Jaskier speaks quietly, dispassionately, his gaze fixed on the forest. Geralt feels the delicate bones of Jaskier's wrist under his fingers as he tries to detangle the slick, slippery chain from his wrist. "I never realised how cruel humans could be, before coming here. That they would kill anything they wouldn't understand. And if not kill; capture, maim, torture." 

Geralt doesn't hear the accusation in Jaskier's tone, which is flat, detached. But it must be there. Because that's what he did, capture, maim, torture. Even now, his hands are covered in Jaskier's blood, the smell of it making him nauseous, but he has to open the silver chain, covered in blood from the countless chafes, wounds and bite marks, the skin so badly damaged it'll leave a wide, nasty scar even if it heals properly. 

"My first winter here I was surprised." Jaskier keeps talking, a slight waver in his voice here and there when Geralt has to yank the chain harder, "There was no snow if I were south enough, there was sunlight through the winter. And at summer it was dark at night and I just kept looking at the sky wondering how do people know when the Midsummer is when there's no midnight sun to tell them to stay awake to use the Midsummer Magic."

"You're from the Far North." it comes out as a statement rather than a question he meant it to be. 

"...Yes. Beyond the Dragon Mountains, where people won't form permanent settlements, where they travel year-round and always entertained me with stories, fairytales and legends from The South they had heard while trading furs. I loved hearing them. Wanted to see if they were true. The South sounded so... large, full of adventures and stories beyond imagination. How well that turned out..." Jaskier's voice dies down. 

"You miss home?" Geralt gives himself a mental slap as soon as the words are out of his mouth, but he wants to keep Jaskier talking, to distract him from the pain he's sure he's causing. 

"...Yes. Sometimes."

Geralt racks his brain trying to come up something else to ask, something Jaskier might be willing to share with him as the distress and pain roll off him in waves and he can feel the bard shiver under his touch as he tries to untangle the too tight silver chain without doing more damage. 

"You always played the lute?" 

"...No." 

Geralt risks a glance at Jaskier and catches a sliver of a smile on his lips, so he continues, "What else do you play?"

"My first instrument was the fiddle. I got one from the traders as a gift and tricked a lake-dwelling monster to teach me. She was ever the patient teacher, as long as you wouldn't turn to look at her. If I had, she would have dragged me into the depths of the lake and drowned me in a heartbeat. But I returned to her, day after day and she taught me every song she knew, every trick with the fiddle until she told me she knew no more. I kissed her sweetly goodbye, promising to teach her all the songs I'd learn on my travels before I left..." Jaskier falls silent, his gaze fond as he's reliving his memories and Geralt's thoughts turn sour. Jaskier's never going to remember him like that, he's never going to remember pressing his lips to the witcher's lips, never going to remember Geralt's hands caress his hands gently, guiding his fingers... He's never going to get the affection the unnamed water creature got and it makes him... uneasy. Bitter. 

"...Are you really Jaskier?" As soon as Geralt manages to utter the words, the chain falls heavy to the ground. Geralt can feel the slight tremor of his medallion against his chest, so small he would normally pay no attention to it, as Jaskier looks at his wrist, now free. Jaskier looks at him, his eyes shining blue as the chaos whirls around him and dozens, hundreds, thousands of flowers grow to bloom around him in a rainbow of colours. 

"I... You shouldn't ask questions you're not ready to heart the answer to," Jaskier chokes out. He stares at Geralt, at his wrist finally free of the chain but as soon as Geralt reaches his hand to look over his injuries, Jaskier flinches and scrambles back, away from him and the air turns sour with the scent of fear so strong it even drowns the aroma of crushed flowers underneath it until it's all that's left. 

Jaskier is gone, the flowers wilting without his presence. 

"Fuck." Geralt slumps back to his bedroll and moves to cover his face with his hands, only to be greeted with the stench of poisoned blood. 

He's never going to see Jaskier again. 

When did he start to think about the creature as Jaskier? He tries to puzzle out the answer, but his body is too tired, clouding his thoughts, making it impossible to think straight. 

  
_"Geralt! Oh, Melitele, please don't die, please don't die... Stay awake, damn it, Geralt! Please, don't leave me..._

  
_No, Master Witcher, please! Please don't leave! Don't leave me! Don't leave me alone, please...!"_

  
_Drink this, there you go... A little bit more... Good... good, drink up everything..._

  
_Fuck! No, no, no, don't do this to me, you can do this... only a little bit more... I know this hurts, stay with me..._

  
_Please, please stop... hurts... I can't... I can't... Stop, please I'm begging you... stop... just stop..._

  
_I'll do anything... Anything you want..._

  
_Just... just please, I'm begging, Master Witcher, please let me go..."_

  
_Why can't I... Why doesn't it work...! It's okay... sleep now... sleep..."_

  
Geralt doesn't know how long he sleeps. His dreams are disorienting, twisted and when he opens his eyes he doesn't even know what time of the day it is. The sky is dim, the sun low enough that everything is almost shrouded in darkness and he can barely make out the forest around him. 

He's utterly alone, even Roach is back at the village hopefully well-taken care off. He's never felt so lonely. 

He doesn't _need_ Jaskier. 

And yet, he wants him here. He doesn't want to be alone. Not anymore, not after a decade of the nearly constant company at his side. 

Jaskier will never return to him, he made sure of that with his own bare hands. 

And now he has to live with that.

"...You're awake?"

Geralt represses his first instinct to go for his sword and instead forces himself to stay perfectly still. 

"Hmm..." He doesn't trust his voice, not yet. Not when he hears the voice he thought he'd never get to hear again. He doesn't even dare to turn to look, in fear it's all a lie, a trick by his mind and there's nothing at the forest, no one to call for him. 

"Yeah, good... That's... good..."

The voice undoubtedly belongs to Jaskier. Geralt steals a glance towards the voice bracing himself for the worst. That he'll see nothing, that all was just in his head and Jaskier is gone forever. 

Just behind the treeline, is a figure clad in black clothing. 

The sun is starting to rise, but it's still just dark enough Geralt can't make out anything else, at least not where he lies on the ground. He sits up slowly, careful of his wounds. 

His swords are leaning against a tree, far enough he can't reach them but close enough he could close the distance in a second. He makes no move towards them. 

The figure takes a step towards him, coming to stand just behind a tree. 

Jaskier has never looked more beautiful as he does when the first rays of the morning sun illuminate him, morning dew clinging to his hair like jewels and Geralt feels like he can't breathe. No scrapes or bruises are marring Jaskier's face, not like last time Geralt saw him. 

Geralt rakes his brain for something, anything to say. 

Anything to keep Jaskier here. 

"The... the wraiths..." he starts. He's not one to tell stories, but he has to try. He has to try so Jaskier won't leave. "There was a... there was a mass grave. Dozens of young women and girls." He falls silent, not certain how to continue. 

"...Why are you telling me this, Master Witcher?" 

Geralt decides he hates when Jaskier calls him that. 

"You know my name, use it," he growls.

Jaskier takes a half a step back, almost hiding behind the tree, ready to run. "You told me, and I quote you, Master Witcher, 'don't call me by my name with that voice'. What voice would you like me to use?" Jaskier's voice wavers, in fear or anger, Geralt is not sure. Jaskier is too far away for him to smell much of anything and Geralt can't blame him for it. 

"...Damn it, Jaskier. Just be you." Geralt looks away, certain the poet will be gone when he looks again. 

"...Why are you telling me about the wraiths, Geralt?" 

Geralt looks up startled at the voice, softer now than before.

"You always ask me for stories," he manages to say, his voice strangely strangled. 

"I guess I do, don't I?" There is a small sad smile playing on Jaskier's lips. "So, Geralt. Please, tell me about the wraiths? Why was there a mass grave?" 

"A murderer. Fancied young women. Girls. What I gathered he did some nasty stuff. Kept a... a token of sorts from each of his victims. Jewellery, hair, clothes, that sort of thing." Geralt dares a peek at Jaskier. He repeats his words silently, trying to memorise them. Geralt has seen him do it before when he doesn't have anything to write with. 

"Villagers didn't believe there was a murder, claimed it had been a monster killing all those girls. It was a pain in the arse to find out who it was and get all of the trinkets. Then to find the fucking grave so I could burn the bodies." 

"What did you do to the murderer?"

"... Nothing," Geralt admits. "It was one of the village elders. No-one would have believed me." 

"And then people claim you to be the monster," Jaskier scoffs. He steps closer, still by the treeline and sits down. He's close enough to the trees to run away in a moments notice, but far enough from Geralt, Geralt couldn't reach him, even if he tried. "Men go out of their way to find monsters and ignore the ones amidst them."

Jaskier's posture is tense, his eyes fixed on Geralt's hands. Geralt tries to keep his hands in sight, relaxed as they fall into an uncomfortable silence. 

"...Are you...?" Geralt stops and tries to get what he wants to say into words. "I thought you might be a dryad. But you're a man..."

"I'm not," Jaskier interrupts him, voice soft, a bit uncertain. 

Geralt looks up at him trying to comprehend his words without much success. "You're not... what? A dryad?"

"A man. I'm not a man." 

"But... I've seen you naked? And I've seen the long line of women batting their eyes at you after a good dicking." And the line is a long one. Not that Geralt wishes to be on the line as well. Not. At. All. 

"I may appear to be a man, but just because I chose to." Jaskier looks at him, searching his face. Geralt has the sinking feeling it's because he's looking for a threat. 

"So... you're a dryad?" Geralt tries to wrap his head around the information he's given. It shouldn't be that hard, he's a witcher, monsters are his speciality. And still, he has no idea what the creature on the other side of the clearing is. 

"I'm not a dryad."

"Spriggan? Leshy?"

"Now you're just listing monsters. How rude. It's not the same in the Far North. It's just... us. Mostly anyway."

"Do you... do you want to go back home?" The question strangles his throat but he forces the words out anyway. Jaskier deserves to go home. To be with his family, to be happy. 

"...Sometimes. Now more after I got to talk with my father."

"You said it was a regular bear?" Geralt asks confused. Sure Jaskier talked to the bear but Geralt had believed him when he had said it was nothing. 

"It was... more like an avatar of him. The God of the Forest is the bear and every bear has the potential of being The God of the Forest." Jaskier lays his words carefully, watching Geralt with his serious blue eyes. 

"You're a god?" Geralt blurts out and earns a small amused huff from the poet. 

"Don't be daft, I know you don't believe in gods, why would you even ask that?" Jaskier asks, a small mocking smile playing on his lips. 

"But you just said...?"

"That's not how it works. Or I think that's not how it works anyway... I'm more of a... spirit... or a fae. A protector. In the Far North people call us Maidens of the Forest or Blue Maidens. Not that different from a leshy, if you will. People consider them gods too."

"Leshy don't leave their forest."

"And yet, here we are..." 

"You're not a monster." Geralt insists, too stubborn to let it go. 

"Aren't I?" Jaskier asks with a tilt in his head and Geralt has to look away. 

He knows there is a meaning behind the question beyond the obvious. Jaskier is clearly not human, he's something Geralt was taught to be a monster. 

"No, you're... Jaskier."

"Am I?" Jaskier asks and when Geralt looks at him, Jaskier's eyes are fixed on his. He still sits far enough so Geralt can't touch him, no matter how much he wants at that moment. No matter how much he wants to collect the poet in his arms and never let him go, to make sure he's really there. 

"...Yes," he answers, his voice quiet but steady, willing Jaskier to believe him. To trust him again, no matter how much he doesn't deserve it. 

They sit in silence for a while and Geralt dares to peek a look at Jaskier. At Jaskier who has the first genuine smile on his lips as he watches him, chin resting on his knee. Still too far to touch. Too far to hurt. 

"You said he was dead."

The smile dies from Jaskier's lips and he hugs his arm close to his chest. The arm Geralt broke with his bare hands. 

"...Near Lettenhove, in a bend of a stream, is a field of buttercups which bloom a year around. There lies a child, barely old enough to crawl." Jaskier falls silent and Geralt doesn't dare to ask for more. "...I couldn't save him," Jaskier continues, his voice barely a whisper, "I couldn't save him but I couldn't leave him there to be stolen, he didn't have his teeth yet..."

"...Teeth?" 

"Yes, teeth. Pay attention, will you? Those are The Rules, everyone knows that."

Geralt doesn't know, he isn't even sure he wants to but he waits for Jaskier to elaborate.

"...A human child who doesn't have their teeth yet is up for anyone to steal. He was so innocent, so beautiful and I could hear how his parents searched for him, desperate to find him before anything bad happened." Jaskier fixes his eyes on Geralt, his face carefully blank. "Was it so wrong of me to pretend to be a human child? To prevent anything malevolent from stealing him? To give his parents a few more years with their child?"

Geralt doesn't know what to say. He stares at Jaskier. At the spirit who never claimed to be anything but Jaskier the bard. Buttercup. Leinikki. 

He asked the wrong questions. 

All of this is his fault and his fault alone. 

"...No. No, I..." Geralt falls silent, searching for words. "I shouldn't have... I was wrong." He pauses again trying to come up with something to repair what he's done, "You're not a monster, Jaskier. You did the right thing." 

"I don't really need your permission, Geralt."

"You're right, you don't need it."

"...Thank you. Anyway."

They fall into another awkward silence. Geralt didn't appreciate Jaskier's ability to hold one-sided conversations before but he does now. 

"...What can you do?" he finally manages to ask. 

"Make flowers bloom mostly."

"Don't try to bullshit me. I saw how you made the forest gobble up those nekkers like they were a couple of twigs."

"Well... yes... But they were being horribly rude, trying to kill us and all. They really should have known better than to disturb The Forest." Jaskier looks at him as if trying to see... something. He inches closer until he's finally close enough to touch. Geralt doesn't dare to move, doesn't dare to lean into him, to touch, fearing he'll frighten Jaskier away. 

Jaskier lifts his hand to lay it on Geralt's cheek, his fingers brushing slowly at an almost healed scrape under his eye. "I can also do this..." he admits, his voice wavering, fragile, as he runs his fingers along his face. Geralt feels a gentle hum of his medallion, no more than what he might expect in an ancient forest. And the pain from his face is... gone. 

Geralt blinks and looks at Jaskier's hand, gently sliding over his body and back at Jaskier, who keeps looking at him, his expression so frightened, uncertain Geralt can't help but lift his hand slowly, giving the poet plenty of time to pull back. But he doesn't, not even when Geralt weaves his fingers in Jaskier's hair and presses their foreheads together. 

"... Thank you, Jaskier..." he mutters as the bard... the spirit runs his hand over his side, gently healing the already stitched wounds. 

"For you, always, _armahin_..." Jaskier whispers. 

His magic tickles, like water running down Geralt's skin, a gently caress barely there. Jaskier's hand stills on his cheek and his breath shudders. Jaskier feels so fragile like he'll break even at the faintest touch and Geralt doesn't even think when he nuzzles into Jaskier's hand, kissing his palm. 

A startled gasp makes Geralt open his eyes and he looks up into the cornflower blue eyes staring at his lips, his gaze dropping lower, to the lips bitten pink and plush, mouth hanging open just the tiniest bit and Geralt hasn't wanted to kiss anyone as badly as he wants to kiss Jaskier at that moment. 

Jaskier is there, in his arms and he thought he'd never get to have this, he'd never get to have his poet in his arms, touch him like he's the most precious thing in the world and before he has time to think anything else he's leaning forward. 

His lips touch Jaskier's lips like they are the most delicate thing in the whole world, _I missed you_.

He kisses him fully, gently, _I thought I'd never see you again._

He pulls Jaskier to his lap, hands cradling his waist, fingers soft on his skin, tracing the curves of his body like he's made of the world's most expensive silk, _I thought you died_.

He kisses him like he's drowning and he's the air like he's the first drop of water on dry lips after days of starvation, _I thought I'd never get this_.

He kisses him like his his, _I thought I could never have you_.

He can barely think, Jaskier pliant on his lap, kissing him back and all he can think about is _mine, mine, mine_ , trying to touch every bit of the poet he can reach, griping tighter the more he can smell the arousal on the poet's skin. It's like an aphrodisiac, a drug and he can't think straight, all he can focus on is the bard squirming beautifully in his lap, rocking into him, responding to his every touch, kissing him back on every kiss. 

His hands slip under Jaskier's shirt and like a bucket of cold water poured over his head, the air turns sour with the scent of fear and Geralt has to hold himself from physically reeling back. 

He breaks the kiss and lets his hands fall to rest on Jaskier's hips, not restraining, wide enough Jaskier can step away from him if he wants to. 

"Can I... can I say no?" Jaskier's voice is barely a whisper, fragile in a way Geralt has never heard before and it makes his chest freeze, and he barely manages to choke out, 

"Always."

"Yeah... Okay... Okay... Good..." Jaskier presses his forehead to Geralt's and Geralt can feel him tremble like leaf on the wind. Geralt wants to pull the poet against him, to drown him in kisses, to comfort him, to never let go. 

But he doesn't. 

He lets Jaskier caress his cheek with trembling hands but doesn't return the gesture, not sure if it would be welcome. 

"You're important to me, Geralt..." Jaskier murmurs, the statement clearly holding more importance than the words themselves but Geralt is at loss. 

"You're important to me too," he manages to say because it's true. The poet is so important to him, more important he even thought possible. 

" _Armahin.._." Jaskier murmurs and presses a small kiss at the corner of Geralt's mouth. He untangles his limbs from Geralt and stands up on shaky legs. 

Geralt looks at him, all of the signs from previous bruises and scrapes gone. But under the cuff of his sleeve, he spots a makeshift bandage around his wrist and before he has time to think he's already reaching to touch.

Jaskier yanks his hand back, bracing it against his chest and takes half a step back. 

Geralt shouldn't feel hurt. But still, he does. It hurts to have Jaskier so close, yet so far. Like the poet hadn't been in his arms just a moment before. It isn't fair. 

All of this is his fault and his fault alone. 

"Jaskier..." Geralt lets his hand fall, trying to figure out what is it exactly he wants to say. "You're okay... right?"

Jaskier laughs clearly despite himself, the sound more hysterical than joyful, "Yeah, yeah. I'm fine. Just... peachy."

That is not the answer he wanted to hear. But can he blame Jaskier for lying, for not trusting him. 

The scent of fear spikes again and Geralt looks up, at Jaskier who is taking small slow steps away from him, flowers blooming in his footsteps. Just far enough Geralt can't reach. 

He's suddenly painfully aware of his hands, clenched in fists and he takes a few calming breaths before he can relax them. 

"Your wrist. It'll be okay...?" It's not really a question, not a proper one anyway. 

"...Yeah... I'll need a couple of days. It'll be fine." 

Geralt is not sure who Jaskier is trying to reassure, himself or Geralt. But it's all he can ask for.

He wants to keep Jaskier here, with him. Where he can see him, keep him safe. 

But it's not up to him. No matter how much he wants he doesn't deserve it. He doesn't deserve Jaskier. After what he did. 

"I could... make sure it heals." He has to try. Something. Anything. 

"Geralt..." Jaskier looks at him, something fragile in his eyes, "You almost killed me. Quite literally. I need... time..." he falls silent before one final whispered word falls from his lips, "Sorry..." The apology is so quiet, almost like an afterthought but Jaskier feeling the need to say it chokes all air out of Geralt's lungs.

All of it is so much worse said aloud. 

"Your lute," Geralt starts. His voice sounds weird in his ears. He has to do something to make this right, to make up for what he did. "It's in the temple of Melitele, with Nenneke."

"I'm sure she'll be thrilled to see me." Jaskier offers him a grin Geralt is sure was meant to be cocky but came out as sad. 

"I doubt that."

"Yeah, well, who could resist my charm?" Jaskier bows at him with a flourish, his display only dampened by the black clothes he's wearing instead of his fancy colourful dublets. Jaskier's smile turns genuinely sad and he reaches his hand to Geralt only to pull it back before he's even close to touching. 

"I'll see you around, Geralt."

***

And then there was the djinn. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *I get wounded, when you hold me like that, the pain only gets stronger  
> I would be yours now when you want to get away, and the door only closes  
> When I am hurting, when knives turn in my heart  
> I tremble just like every human, a mortal  
> If this ends, if love ends tonight  
> I will break just like every human, a mortal
> 
> I can't write poetry to save my life so the song is [Kuolevainen by Johanna Kurkela ](https://youtu.be/1PvBsUWryCY). It's one of my favourite songs and it fit the fic so well I just had to add it. 
> 
> What Jaskier said was basically a love confession. And the nickname he has for Geralt means 'my love' (but without the big L-word) or 'my dearest'.
> 
> I have been plotting a sequel for this, so stay tuned!

**Author's Note:**

> You can find me on Tumblr @frywen-bumbles (witcher sideblog)


End file.
